


you weren't mine (but i was always yours)

by botanyclub



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene(s), Self-Indulgent, canon-compliant but at what cost, clownbert blythe, sad boy hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 12:46:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22116247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/botanyclub/pseuds/botanyclub
Summary: Gilbert has spent his entire boyhood knowing Anne – knowing the exact hue of her hair stuck somewhere between apple orchards and sunsets over Caribbean horizons; the rush of her temper and the depths of her compassion; the cadence of her breathing as she pours over her books, absent-mindedly stroking the spine as they sit side by side at lunch. He knows all of this in the same vein that he admits to knowing very little. The whole of Anne Shirley is infinitely more than the sum of her parts. But where exactly Gilbert fits into this equation, he still isn’t sure.
Relationships: Gilbert Blythe/Anne Shirley, Gilbert Blythe/Winifred Rose
Comments: 8
Kudos: 84





	you weren't mine (but i was always yours)

**Author's Note:**

> i used to ship this casually but Now I'm Writing Fic. title taken from aiden alexander's yours, a shirbert anthem if i've ever heard one.

> “I have a dream,” he said slowly. “I persist in dreaming it, although it has often seemed to me that it could never come true. I dream of a home with a hearth-fire in it, a cat and dog, the footsteps of friends – and you!"
> 
> ANNE OF THE ISLAND

-

He’s hurtling toward Charlottetown in a train that seems to be moving impossibly fast, the Canadian countryside whipping by in a blur of autumn colors that inevitably remind him of Anne. But then again, Gilbert has always had a particular talent for relating the most mundane and tangential of things to Anne, even if the events of two nights ago were not already fresh in his mind like a continuously festering wound.

  


_ Anne Shirley Cuthbert.  _

  


Gilbert fiddles with the ring in his hand, turning the golden band over and over again distractedly while he stares forlornly out the window. The grooves of the emerald dig into the pads of his fingers and the corporeal pain, as fleeting and dull as it was, momentarily distracts him from the heaviness weighing on his chest. He stares down at the offending object, unable to grasp its presence and the consequences of what he is about to do. 

  


Thinking upon Bash, the natural progression of getting your heart broken would suggest that a marriage proposal was in order. If nothing else, Gilbert looks up to his older brother in all things pertaining to women. After all, he had ended up marrying the love of his life. And if Gilbert couldn’t marry the love of his life, then at least he’s on a train to Charlottetown knowing he tried.

  


But Bash doesn’t get it. 

  


“I needed to know where I stood with Anne.” He chokes back the disappointment, smarting from the sting of giving voice to his rejection but knowing he needs to barrel ahead with some measure of conviction. Gilbert can’t do what he’s about to do without Bash’s blessing. “And now that I do, I think I could be happy with Winnie.”

  


Bash has got that look in his eye. Equal parts skepticism and ‘what has this white boy gotten himself into?’ as he asks, “you’re sure you’re sure?” 

  


His words still echo in Gilbert’s ear.  _ Don’t go feeling you have to do something because people expect it. Don’t go moving halfway across the world on a maybe.  _

  


But eventually, (out of resignation or Gilbert’s sheer determination to move past it all) Bash relents. “So Anne is your past-”

  


“-and Winnifred is my future.”

  


Credit where credit is due, if the older man has clocked the false bravado in Gilbert’s voice, he has the grace not to say anything further. 

  


All the same, Gilbert can feel the sense of doubt rolling off of Bash in waves. But beneath it, a quiet resolve to let Gilbert go. 

  


All too soon, the train pulls up at Charlottetown. The flutter of activity around him as people stand to leave offers momentary reprieve. Gilbert takes the time to gather his things, slips the ring back into the pouch and tucks the bundle into the breast pocket of his Sunday suit. As he steps onto the platform, the cool air of impending fall tickles his nose, carries on it the smell of petrichor as it brushes gossamer fingers against his cheek. Harvest time is nearly over and with the changing of the season brings the advent of school. 

  


Gilbert starts a brisk pace toward the Rose Estate, thoughts whirring through his brain back and forth like cannon fire. He has never been one to dwell on anything for long (allowed himself only until sunrise to nurse his broken heart) and so approaches the problem like he would any other: through simple logic and deductive reasoning. (The same logic and deductive reasoning that had him poking around looking for his mother’s ring in a fit of not quite madness but a fleeting moment of “clarity” or a some close facsimile of it). 

  


One of Bash’s -isms: stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  


Case in point: at least a rock is a certainty. He understands its curves and edges and contours; the principles and qualities that define it as such. He can hold it in his hands and know implicitly that it is a rock. One that holds promises of Paris and medical school and a life outside of provincial pastures. He is acutely aware of Winnie’s position at a station so far above his own. He should be grateful that his rock turned out to be a diamond.

Counter point: his hard place is Anne. Indescribable Anne. And how does one define her? Is she something he can quantify and explain? Can he hold her in his arms and count the rhythmic beats per second of her pulse points? Catalogue every microexpression while she daydreams? 

Gilbert has spent his entire boyhood knowing Anne – knowing the exact hue of her hair stuck somewhere between apple orchards and sunsets over Caribbean horizons; the rush of her temper and the depths of her compassion; the cadence of her breathing as she pours over her books, absent-mindedly stroking the spine as they sit side by side at lunch. He knows all of this in the same vein that he admits to knowing very little. The whole of Anne Shirley is infinitely more than the sum of her parts. But where exactly Gilbert fits into this equation, he still isn’t sure. 

  


His heart clenches at the memory of that night by the ruins, an acute sort of pain that light his nerve endings on fire. He reflexively clenches and unclenches his jaw but can’t help the self-destructive nature of recalling the trauma if only to catch a glimpse of Anne, suffused in ember but indescribably more luminous. The spark of mischief and whimsy in her eyes that bleed out into tenderness when she spots him and he asks, with his heart in his throat, if he could ‘ _ speak to her please’ _ and Anne braids gentle fingers into his own as he helps her off her ship, lands on the sand just a hop, skip and a jump away from his face and Gilbert swears he can taste the moonshine off her breath. He leads her away from the group, can’t face the attention and curiosity in their gazes. The night air is cloying, bonfire smoke and the promise of rain cut down by the occasional ocean breeze, edging too close to uncomfortable to breathe. Or maybe Gilbert has stopped breathing altogether, the way Anne is looking at him from underneath a curtain of lashes. 

  


He doesn’t know where to begin or how to navigate this uncharted land. Doesn’t know how he ended up here in the first place when he promised Bash a quiet celebration after dinner. In the end, Gilbert can’t help following the sort of magnetism that pulls him North, following the instinct all the way to Anne. 

  


Gilbert feels the rub of her thumb across his wrist, so soft it’s barely there. He hasn’t let go of her hand yet. Doesn’t know if he really wants to.

  


Meanwhile, Anne is quiet. Waiting.

  


Perhaps a confession is in order. Honesty is the best policy, after all, and the crux of the problem is his enduring affections for Anne. 

  


But Gilbert has enough sense to know that he can’t exactly frame this as a problem. It’s entirely unromantical! And equally unromantical is a confession dictated from the seat of his pants. How can Gilbert wax poetic about feelings he only just recently came to realize he possessed? Surely anything short of Shakespearen would be a disappointment to Anne.

  


He’s still unsure how to set the scene, but knows he has to lay out the stakes, at least. Let her know what’s on the line, impress upon her the urgency of his situation, and still the ardor of his affections. But tactfully, of course. So as to not hurt Anne’s feelings or worse, scare her away. 

  


“I was just over at Winnie’s place for dinner,” Gilbert begins and the way Anne extracts her hand, the loss of its warmth, and how abruptly she puts space between the two of them like a wounded animal lets Gilbert know that it is the wrong thing to say. She drops down unceremoniously on a nearby log, bloodless lips drawn into a very thin line. She trains her face into an expression of bland regard but Anne’s eyes are vacant - faraway.

  


“ _ Anne _ ” - 

  


He stops the memory in its tracks. Wills it away with a shake of his head. 

  


Gilbert doesn’t want to relive the trauma of laying out his entire future and admitting to how easy it would be to leave it all behind for Just One Thing. How easily he could rewrite his entire hereafter with just the addition of Anne, the foundation of his happiness and the life he would build around her. 

  


But for all of his merits, Gilbert doesn’t have the scope of Anne’s imagination. Simply cannot fathom a future in which they’re together but not  _ together _ and so he must fashion a life where they run in parallel lines.

  


As he approaches the Rose Estate, a grand home fitting for an equally grand family, a growing sense of dread grips Gilbert’s legs. Struck with some sort of affliction, he cannot take another step forward. Rooted in place like the crocus lining the pathway leading up to their porch. 

  


Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe he was too hasty in his decision to move on, clouded in judgement by a cocktail of heartbreak and Parisian aspirations.

  


He tells Bash that he could be happy with Winnie. But now he wonders if he was perhaps misguided in his declaration. Is being happy the same as  _ happiness _ ? Are the two mutually exclusive or is Gilbert choosing now to be philosophical in an attempt to stall time? 

  


Gilbert stares forlornly up at the house when he’s overcome with a sudden thought, looking at the faded blue shutters:  _ Anne would love this home _ . Surely she would stare in wonderment at the size, the many nooks and crannies in which to hide secret letters and items to be discovered on future quests. Rooms enough to house every single one of her loved ones so that she may live each and everyday filled with laughter and adventure. Cheekily, Anne would name two noble steeds after her very favorite knights, Percival and Gawain, and lay with them by the hearthfire as she read aloud  _ The Lady of Shallot _ (“the most romantical of stories” she sighed to Gilbert last Christmas as he peered curiously over her shoulder, momentarily mesmerized by the curve of her neck). And Gilbert is there too, head in her lap as she runs a leisurely hand through his curls, falling asleep to the sound of her voice. 

  


The ring lays heavier in his pocket. 

  


“Gilbert!” Winnie calls like a cold bucket of water. She is perusing a book by the open window looking out onto their lawn. Her hair is carefully laid and she is wearing her very best dress. “Are you coming to call on me? How very unexpected!” 

  


“Hello, Miss Rose!” He wants to say more, but Gilbert can’t seem to swallow past the lump in his throat.

  


Winnie disappears from the window and he can hear her fumble with the door lock while he remains rooted in place. Eventually, she manages and throws open the door with an excitement Gilbert is unable to mirror.

  


He can’t help the disappointment he feels, seeing Winnie’s backlit silhouette in a home he pictures for himself. The wrongness of his life without Anne. And in equal parts, that same pull he felt back in Trinidad. The one that sweeps him back out to sea on the next ship headed north. A call back to Canada, to Avonlea, to home. To a certain red-headed girl who had cracked a slate over his head and slipped an illness inside, one that has spread to the center of his core and burns him steadily from the inside out. There is no cure or even an approximation of one. Years of study at the Sorbonne could not bring him respite. In the end, there is only Anne. 

  


He has a dream that he persists in dreaming, although it has often seemed that it could never come true.

  


_ You can only know something when you know it and not a minute before. _

  


**Author's Note:**

> dusting the cobwebs off. this is the first piece of writing i have published in literal years and will not be accepting any criticism at this time, thanks. but also, let's discuss the unintentional implications of gilbert referring to anne as his hard place and by discuss i mean heavily repress and collectively go 2 church. if you've made it this far, you have my eternal love + devotion.


End file.
